


The sad winter in my heart

by badreputation



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate universe - Jaskier comes from a poor family, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Geralt has to work on his issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Alternating, Yen always know what's going on, did I mention they'll suffer? because they will before it gets better, kind of backstory of Jaskier, set after episode 6, temporary suicidal thoughts, they'll push through thit but it'll take them some time and a lot of effort on Geralt's side
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22546369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badreputation/pseuds/badreputation
Summary: To be quite fair, he didn't think Geralt kept him for anything but the convenient flow of money. And perhaps tolerated him as a mild form of gratitude for having almost entirely cleared his name in the decade they'd known each other. There were times where Geralt had treated him as, in fact, a friend, but those were moments too few in between to compensate.So Jaskier would grant his wish and make sure to never cross paths with him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 23
Kudos: 395





	1. Please melt away the cold winter

**Author's Note:**

> I should make it clear from the get-go that I have only watched the TV series and have just started to read the books, so I am sorry for any inconsistencies! 
> 
> This was inspired by the song Giriboy - Snow Sweeping, as the title shows, and my need to see Geralt make an effort after his fuck up.
> 
> ATTENTION!! This story contains graphic description of depression, its aftermath and temporary suicidal thoughts. Please be safe if this bothers you!
> 
> Also, I read it a few times but there might still be mistakes - sorry!

When Jaskier left that fucking idiot of a witcher, for a fraction of a second he caught Yennefer's eyes, filled with genuine pity and for the first time - with no malice whatsoever.

He ignored her, ignored everybody, on his trek down. The fury and hurt kept him boiling, made time fly past him in a flash until he was finally at the skirts of the mountain. He saw Roach, hesitated, but when she tried to come close to him to no avail because of the rope that held her to a post, he heaved a resigned sigh and approached her.

She'd warmed up to him during all the journeys he'd tagged along. Oh, wait, no, during all the journeys Geralt had _let_ him tag along. Apparently he'd really been the menace he'd hoped was just a facade on Geralt's part due to his depth of a muddy pond. 

He raised a hand to stroke her just behind her ear, then the side of her jaw. She huffed at him, yet didn't pull away. Her tail swung from side to side in a slow glide, ears forward, signalling that she was at complete ease. 

"You know, I think having to leave you as well is the cherry on the top. Just when we'd started getting along, eh?"

Roach must have sensed his misery or maybe she was just craving human touch, because she stepped forward and gently butted him with her nose, emitting a snort. 

"I'll miss you too. Very much, in fact. You can blame that all on your buffoon of an owner, he's so dense and self-absorbed at times that I don't know how you haven't left him. Then again, he does love you more than anything, I think."

He kept on musing quietly, while he let himself have a long goodbye. 

This was it then.

Geralt had been very adamant that he wanted nothing to do with him anymore. And even if Jaskier got himself into too much trouble for putting his nose where it had no business, he was aware enough to know when he wasn't wanted. 

To be quite fair, he didn't think Geralt kept him for anything but the convenient flow of coin. And perhaps tolerated him as a mild form of gratitude for having almost entirely cleared his name in the decade they'd known each other. There were times where Geralt had treated him as, in fact, a friend, but those were moments too few in between to compensate.

So Jaskier would grant his wish and make sure to never cross paths with him.

He reached for the inner pocket of his jacket, took out a thin stone with rich shades of green and violet - a fluorite. A few years back he’d met an old wizard who had taken a liking to his singing, said it reminded him of his own son. He'd given him a few of those same pebble-like stones, told him that any moment he wanted to escape somebody, he just had to place the stone on their person and make sure it stayed with them for an hour or two until it did its magic. 

Jaskier pushed it in a small dent of the saddle, the stone thin enough to slide in the leather. That, at least, had the biggest potential to not get lost for the upcoming six or so hours. 

There we go, now his fucking wish was granted. It was a mild satisfaction that he never got to share this part with Geralt, that he got to keep it to himself. 

He'll never stumble upon Jaskier again unless Jaskier wanted to be found.

##  ⋆⋆⋆⋆

As winter closed in, Jaskier's spirits further dimmed. There was just something about the cold, short days that got under his skin. He never fared well during this disgusting season, barely had the energy to move out of the warmth of his bed. He had a lot of nightmares, due to which he'd get minimal sleep and draw near a point where he'd have hallucinations. Small and harmless, yet unsettling nonetheless. 

It was the time where he kept lavender and mint oil on himself at all times, to calm his jittery nerves and give him the opportunity to sleep a bit throughout the night. 

That was partly why Jaskier almost never traveled with Geralt during the winter. He'd be even more useless than usual what with no inclination of moving, singing or playing his lute to earn them coin. Nothing interested him, apart from a good rest and a warm fire to keep his blood from freezing. 

He barely got by and opted for a brief change of his wardrobe, normal and affordable clothes that would keep him warm during the months where income would be sparse. He hated to admit, but winter was the only season where he preferred being practical rather than maintaining his usual taste and style. 

He debated with himself, whether he should stop by his home village, to find the buried box with the necklace. The one his mother had crafted for him, to help him control his 'powers' or whatever the fuck was wrong with him - it made it harder for him to accidentally use it when he got too emotional or to summon it, unless he tried so hard he grew tired in a matter of moments. Nowadays he wondered if his lack of control was the reason for these rapid and prolonged mood swings that got uncontrollable during winter. He had no other way of confirming it.

See, he didn't possess magic, per say. Or he would have been drafted and would have been able to perform _some_ type of magic, if a meager amount. 

No, he just had some strange affinity to water. It helped him heal better, he could control it at some point of his childhood before his father made him stop, in fear of having him found out and beaten. He'd rather have Jaskier alive, if a little disappointed, he'd said, on his knees in front of him when Jaskier had cried upon hearing the ban. 

His parents were certain he was no selkie, siren or merman - just a child with a small, albeit dangerous gift. However, townsfolk were rarely tolerant of different people. All his mother and father had wanted to do was protect him as much as life alowed them.

In the end, he was glad of their choice. It made it easier for him to grow up normal, to integrate himself into society, to become famous not for being a freak, but for his voice and music, which would earn him the title bard in the future.

Then, a storm, lightning hitting the enormous oak to the right of their small house, and--

He had brief flashbacks sometimes, of the event that happened at the start of the new year. The oak had tumbled over his home, having destroyed it almost entirely, had trapped his mother and father under its trunk. They'd been unable to escape and had succumbed to the biting and merciless cold, their last moments spent under icy drops of rain.

At the time, Jaskier had been a few kilometers away in an inn, on his first journey that had ended abruptly when a sudden sense of dread had filled him up to the brim. He went back despite the wind and pouring rain, heeding no warnings from the inn keeper or the barmaid.

Thus, during his sixteenth winter, he'd been left homeless and an orphan. He'd accepted the help of the village to dig up the graves, too numb to utter any nays against much needed hands. He didn't cry. But he felt so cold, like his insides had evaporated and all that was left was a weak, fractured shell of a snail. 

He'd buried the charmed necklace near the oak, where nobody would step in fear that their new superstition would prove to be true. Only then did he break down, as soft rain had started falling from the gray skies.

And he'd left. Hadn't gone back since.

But if memory served him right, his parents had been worried that upon his twentieth winter, his gift might change its nature. Back then, with the mind of a child, he'd no idea what they could possibly mean. At seventeen, when a witch had cursed him to live for two hundred years, he'd elicited to overlook their worry when a much bigger problem had stepped into his life. He'd neglected the signs that his power had gotten more potent, he'd neglected the itch to be near a water source at all times because it was the only thing that got close to being an equivalent of his parents' soothing embrace. He'd been too enamoured with the possibility of befriending a Witcher, then actually fell in love with him, to heed the evident warnings that hissed at him during the cold months. 

Now that his mind was clear of Geralt, apart from the stinging pain and stewing anger, when his heart had been stepped on so hard that it had become a tiny, shrivelled up thing, he knew his parents were right. 

He felt the pull of the water. The only time when he got any rest was in a bath, with his head under the water for the twenty seconds he could hold his breath, where he could enjoy silence and peace. That always calmed him down, let him have a stable six or seven hours of sleep. 

One time, a temporary partner of his had caught him doing that some years back. Jaskier still remembered Amber’s face losing all of its color, had accused him of trying to end his life. And, well, she wasn’t exactly far off, but Jaskier knew he’ll have to live for two hundred winters. It was impossible for him to die before they'd passed.

He never wanted a long life, just one filled with enough songs and stories he could tell his parents when his time came.

##  ⋆⋆⋆⋆

Once, in a big tavern in the north, he heard one of the strangest things.

“I’m tellin’ ya, that bard’s dead. If even the witcher had to ask if anybody’d seen ‘im, he ain’t alive.”

“That don’t mean nothin’.”

“They’ve been travelin’ together for a _decade_ and now yer tellin’ me the bard suddenly up an' disappears, leavin’ so little traces that even a witcher can’t find 'im? No, laddie, he’s dead.” the old man slammed his ale on the table, which signalled the end of the conversation.

If only they knew Jaskier was a few tables away, tucked in the corner. One good thing about wearing commoner clothes was precisely that - nobody recognized him without the flamboyant clothing that would give him away to the enemy from kilometers away.

He ate his potatoes and meat and didn’t utter a word to them.

##  ⋆⋆⋆⋆

Two winters since he’d last seen Geralt passed. During that time he’d met the same old wizard who’d gifted him the fluorite stones, had been a victim of relentless training by said wizard and managed to compose ten new songs in the warm seasons. None of which any tavern or royal banquet had heard. 

He’d also learned that what plagued him during the cold months of winter was not, in fact, a side effect of his unused power, but an illness of the mind, as the wizard had put it.

“It’s a sadness, is it not?” he’d asked Jaskier one summer evening, after grueling training that proved to have a lot of result.

He wasn't a defenceless fool now.

“Wrapped in apathy and emptiness, but sadness nonetheless.”

Jaskier looked at the wizard’s strong profile in the sunset while he fiddled with his dagger - his Roman nose, square jaw, bushy eyebrows that still held a strong tint of black and his long hair, tied in a tail at his nape, almost white as snow, apart from a few stray strands. He appeared more like a warrior than a wizard. The first time Jaskier had met him he’d been certain he was a royal guard or something of the sort.

He was most definitely strong enough to take Geralt in a fight. And he’ll probably win.

Yet he’d taken in Jaskier as something like his apprentice, only not in magic, but in fighting.

“Whatever you’re running away from also has an affect on it.”

Jaskier lowered his head, “I’m not running. I know when I’m not needed. And trust me, it was made explicitly clear that it’s not just my imagination.” 

The wizard was a kind man with a rough exterior and sometimes, when Jaskier was too tired to function, he admitted to himself that maybe one of the reasons they’d clicked so well was mainly due to the fact that he did remind him of Geralt in small ways. Only, a more sophisticated and mindful version that wouldn't scream in his face in anger of his own mistakes.

The other being that he reminded him of his father - in the gentle push in the right direction whenever he needed it, in the care he provided him with, in the way he listened. Most importantly, in the way he accepted him. Because despite making him hide his powers, his parents had done it not out of fear of him, but of fear _for_ him.

There was some misery dragging the man down as well, one that Jaskier put together the moment he’d found out he was well over five hundred years old. He’d seen generations die away, not even a memory of them left behind, he’d lost everybody dear to him. He was all alone in the world.

Now the first words the wizard had ever told him all those years back in the bright tavern, _"You remind me of my boy"_ , had an entirely different ring to them.

“And you look just as lonely as me, son.” it was a confession during one winter night in an old inn, as they sat in front of the fireplace of their room after cold rain had drenched them to the bones. “But you’ve a lot of time ahead of you, if you want to live as more than a lurking shadow, you need to learn how to cope.”

At first, Jaskier didn’t realize he might know of his curse. Then a slight burst of static had made its way down his spine and--

The wizard shook his head, a deep sorrow in his eyes, “I can’t break it. It’s a blood spell - only the maker has the power to drop it.”

“Oh.” and Jaskier had felt himself bloom, then crumble in a matter of five seconds. “What is there to cope with? Everything dies in the end, relationships and people alike.”

“Yes. But it’s your choice whether you carry an empty shell when you meet Death, or embrace her like an old friend, ready for the end of your journey with thousands of stories under your belt.”

If Jaskier hoped that the wizard lacked the ability to read minds - it was a long gone wish now.

“Every witch and wizard can read minds. It’s one of the first things we learn. It depends on the person how they utilize this power. And right now, I think you needed to hear this.”

He only found out the wizard’s name during the last day of training, after three cups of celebratory ale - _Wymar_ , he’d whispered in a hushed tone, so quiet that Jaskier wouldn’t have thought it real had he not met his serious eyes in the dim light.

They parted that night, Wymar promised they’ll meet again as he’d put on his heavy, black cloak.

“Take care of yourself, Jaskier.” he told him. “If you ever need my help,” Wymar pulled a small pendant of a fox on a silver chain, put it over his head. He placed his entire palm over it, murmured something and stepped away. “just think of my name. And I’ll answer.”

Jaskier was speechless, the emotions a heavy mass lodged in his throat. His eyes abruptly filled with tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. Wymar spread his arms and Jaskier jumped into his embrace. 

For the first time in more than fifteen winters, he felt the same warmth that took him over whenever his parents would hug him, felt it engulf him, felt it ease a bit of the darkness.

It had started raining around them, near the tavern that was void of any normal human being in this late hour. But no water touched them, a ring of dry earth around them, as Wymar let Jaskier grip his shirt tight and try to bury the salty tears in the thick clothing. One of his heavy, calloused palms rested on the crown of Jaskier's head, the other between his heaving shoulder blades.

He didn’t remember how he’d gotten himself to his room in the inn, but when he woke up in the morning covered by heavy furs, on the nightstand next to the bed lay five daggers, with the same fox as the pendant engraved into the metal. 

Steel handles, silver blades.

##  ⋆⋆⋆⋆

Jaskier kept wandering wherever the wind took him. He’d seen beautiful lakes, so still that they appeared to be one ginormous mirror. Tall mountains, white from snow that needed little disturbance to create an avalanche. Fields as colorful as a rainbow in the spring, with an array of flowers blooming despite the ruined city a kilometer away. A willow nurtured by the corpse at its trunk, having grown around it so that only the head, ribcage and the armour clad bones of its legs showed. 

He met Yennefer in the late autumn, an abnormally warm day, where the daisies in front of his long ruined home grew. 

Her hair was longer, near her waist. She was clad in a long, black dress that flowed with the breeze, the upper part a spidery lace that connected to her decolletage.

“Jaskier,”

Her face was that of open shock, a hint of something Jaskier couldn’t identify - after all, he didn’t know her well enough.

Jaskier held her eyes for a few seconds before he turned towards his home. Apart from the obvious touch of time and lack of care, it hadn’t changed. The oak had started decaying, but was nowhere near done with that process, so the trunk was still in the middle of the house. Most of the roof had fallen, probably due to the heavy snow that tended to pile up in these parts.

Yennefer walked towards him, the dress flowed smoothly with her. Her eyebrows were pinched together, disbelief clear. Jaskier wasn’t the Jaskier she’d met. He still wore his stylish clothes whenever spring came, but the moment the trees started shedding their leaves and made a carpet of red, orange and yellow, he opted for the warm commoner clothing. 

Now when he didn't need to keep his constant facade it was a luxury of versatility he could indulge in.

Today he was in a dark blue shirt, the strings at the front as loose as possible because he hadn’t anticipated such a warm day. His black pants and boots were an inevitable demise for him during the day, yet without them he’ll freeze in the night. He’d stopped pretending to be happy and joyful when he wasn’t in front of other people, but given he had an audience he made his mouth pull in a grin and gestured as if he was taking off a hat, one foot behind the other in a proper bow.

Yennefer’s expression didn’t change. “You’re different.”

Jaskier shrugged. “What brings you to my house?” 

At that, her confusion doubled. She pointed at the meager thing of a ‘house’. “ _That_ is where you live?” 

“Used to. Many winters ago.”

“Then where did you live all this time? And why could nobody find you?”

With a tilt to his head, he said, “Why, I used a charm given to me by a fifty-hundred year old wizard so that I wouldn’t be found unless I wanted to.”

Yennefer lost any wonder and adopted her default face of boredom. “Oh, really?”

The entire situation was so funny, because the one day Jaskier was at his lowest of lows in years, where he’d decided to find the pendant seeing as he was in the area, had managed to stumble upon Yennefer of Vengerberg. Then, he’d told her the truth and she didn’t believe it.

Of course she wouldn’t. He was some bug under her shoe, always had been the inconvenience that accompanied Geralt. 

Goosebumps rose on his skin with the violent wind that blew away dry, withered daisy petals and leaves. 

Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, the last rays of the sun stung his eyes. “If you have no further business here, I’ll ask you to leave. I have a few graves to take care of.” 

She’d almost snapped something at him, he saw it, but the mention of graves made her regain her calm. With the setting sun at her back, she looked like a creature from the fairytales, bathed in the light that made it seem like she actually emitted it.

She made a portal and disappeared.

##  ⋆

Jaskier fiddled with the necklace from his mother, now around his throat. The silver chain was shorter than the pendant from Wymar. It was made of silver spirals and in the middle sat a stone the same blue of his eyes - a labradorite. Now that he knew something of stones and metals, he couldn’t help but see it as pointless.

The silver was a conductor of magic while the labradorite made powers surface, albeit also enhancing one’s control. 

Yet his powers _had_ stopped being so easily accessible when he'd worn it, then started rippling again the moment he’d buried it at the oak's trunk.

“There’s a spell on it.”

Jaskier almost jumped while in a sitting position. “Good gods, are you trying to kill me, witch?” his heart beat rapidly in his chest cavity. 

Yennefer pulled her skirts to sit next to him as she summoned a fire that made seeing in the dark easier. She was wearing a fur coat over the dress.

Jaskier heaved a sigh, covered the pendant with his other palm. “What do you want, Yennefer?”

The mere sight of her made the winter in his chest grow colder, made Wymar’s words of wisdom and personal advice lose their touch. Made him recall why exactly his everlasting problem had gone worse instead of getting better with the years.

“He’s looking for you.”

Jaskier blinked. “Bollocks.”

“Jaskier, he’s--”

“He’s the one who told me to fuck right out of his life, in case you’ve forgotten. Because I haven’t. What do _you_ gain out of this anyway? You’ve never liked me and I doubt you’d sacrifice your time to such an extent, even for Geralt.”

She let him finish his rant before, “I owe him.”

“Right. Well, make him ask for something else. I’m fulfilling his wish currently, it’s exceptionally hard when you’ve butted your way in.” 

“Cintra fell.”

“I know.”

“He found the Child Surprise.”

At that Jaskier almost uttered a ‘hmmm’ to fuck with her. But she hadn’t done anything to piss him off just yet, so he kept it in. “Marvelous for him, I guess.”

Yennefer seemed to catch his train of thought without Jaskier saying a thing - that poor girl, having to deal with all the brooding, the lack of communication and the utter lack of consideration. Geralt wasn’t a bad person, but his biggest flaw was that he thought too little of people’s emotions and state of being, most likely due to the fact that he himself hadn’t received the same treatment for a long time, if ever. 

Tragic or not, it was a flaw that Geralt didn’t even consider fixing to the smallest of degrees.

Yennefer lowered her gaze to the pendant hidden under Jaskier’s palm. “He has changed, you know.”

“I would very much appreciate it if you stopped reading my mind, thank you.” 

“He’s been looking for you since you left, Jaskier.”

“I’m touched.”

Jaskier fought with the habit to plaster on a smile and fire out a joke. He stood up and turned towards the place where his parents were buried. After more than a decade, there was no way he could differentiate the graves from the untouched soil. But right in the middle, where his memory had pointed him to, sat a large rose bush. The roses had already wasted away, but there were still some dried up crimson petals left on the dead grass, yet to be carried by the wind. 

The storm of winter in his heart blew out any warmth from the day.

He couldn’t even remember their last conversation. Only that he’d, at the very least, gotten to hug them one last time, get a kiss to both cheeks from his mother, and a kiss on his forehead from his father.

Despite their loss, he was one of the lucky souls that had parents who loved him, who’d never abused him or discarded him as if he were a used handkerchief.

He noticed Yennefer’s footsteps halt. 

Jaskier brought his free hand in the air, let a few moments pass for a bit of an effect, and snapped his fingers. Instantly, the trick Wymar made him practise over the course of month was brought in effect and he imagined himself in a bubble of water, completely locked away.

His mind was his own palace, not an interesting pantry to look around in.

A wry snort sounded from Yennefer’s direction. “Changed indeed. You know, I think your pretense fooled us all of your knowledge.”

“Learned it from the wizard of over five hundred winters, actually. But I appreciate how painful it must have been to say that the bug under your shoe has _some_ merits at least.” 

He was too condescending, too arrogant and full of himself but he wanted her to leave him be. She didn't owe him anything, nor did he owe her. The only connection they had was a bridge long burned by strong hands that wanted nothing to do with him.

She didn't say anything as he went to tidy the rose bush.


	2. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos!! As a result I was able to write the second chapter quite quickly, so here goes.
> 
> WARNING: chapter contains graphic depictions of violence! 
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes and I hope you enjoy!

Geralt sat on his table at the full inn, observed the mass for any bright colors. It had become such an ingrained habit that most times he just realized it in retrospect.

Three months ago, Yennefer told him she’d seen Jaskier.

Apparently now he didn’t wear flashy clothing.

Geralt hadn’t intended on even heading towards this dingy village. He’d made a camp in the forest south of it, had fallen asleep almost immediately after a prolonged hunt of a nightwraith. He’d had a strange, bitter dream - him and Jaskier on the road together, only Jaskier was sullen, refused to speak to him and kept so quiet it was like he wasn’t there.

_He’d turned towards Geralt, his eyes shiny gems, with an expression Geralt had only fleetingly caught a few times during frosty days._

_“I’m sorry.” Geralt had murmured, which, of course, came out as a grumble more than anything._

_“Words exist for a reason, Geralt. I hope you haven’t forgotten them.”_

_Geralt’s mouth pulled into a wry smile. “There are no words for this, Jaskier. I fucked up. Royally. Now you’re gone.” he shook his head as he shoved another dry branch into the fire, body too heavy to do anything else._

_Jaskier swallowed, opened his mouth. As if he was wondering if he was making the correct choice. His following words haunted Geralt._

_“I… ” he started, froze, then let out a shaky exhale and with finality said, “I think I wouldn’t mind seeing you again. One last time.”_

As dawn had woken him from the dream before anything else could happen, something had pulled him in the direction of the village like a rope around his middle, tugging violently until he obeyed. Geralt opted not to think of this while in a public place, but his mind carried him there nonetheless. It’d felt too real, he could still hear the fast heart beat.

Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand - a group of six bandits killed, one of which a werewolf, whose head had been pierced by what was most definitely a dagger. It was practically a massacre, the place reeked of fear. Not remnants of the dead, no, a stench that came from one person.

At first he thought it must have been a fear of being caught, yet that same part of him that grew soft upon seeing Ciri safe and sound, asked if it isn’t the fear of a first kill.

During the battle all you think of is to survive. However, once the wave of panic disappeared and you saw what you’ve done, it will all come crashing down on your shoulders as you take in the blood on your hands and clothes, the dead murky eyes that can see through you, the realization that you’ve become a murderer - it weighs more than some can bare.

He’d tracked the scent into the city. It got lost at one point, abruptly gone as if it had never existed. Geralt went to have dinner, a few moments to think of a logical pattern. He’d come to the conclusion that it should be somebody who had type of magic in them if they were able to take down five grown men _and_ a werewolf.

Then all of a sudden a wave of fear, that same fear from a while ago, wafted into his face, to the point where his eyes narrowed from its bitter smell.

Discreetly, his gaze roamed about the inn until it landed on the bar, where a hooded figure was waiting. It hadn’t been there just a mere moment ago. Geralt would have noticed the shift in the air. He was too high strung, too aware of every single body in this place to have skimmed over somebody.

As the innkeeper told the person there’s a room with a bath available, the hooded figure nodded and handed the money over, which got him a key in return.

Geralt observed them vacate their chair with a wince that made their shoulders lift in a deep inhale. With his focus of a predator in wait, despite all the racket and tons of various scents, an unmistakable one standed out - fresh blood.

Geralt took a slow breath, tilted his head a fraction. Their heart beat was too quick for it to be normal, it must have been pretty fucking painful to move. But his victory was shortlived. There was something more. His own heart seized when he caught a familiar gasping pattern.

In his whole life he’d never heard anybody else breathe in gasps that sounded as if they’d been running an entire hour when under stress. Except for one person.

He ordered his body to stand and approach the wounded figure just as it uttered a broken _‘Fuck’_ that not one person in the tavern but Geralt could have heard as he started for the stairs.

Geralt was chained to the spot, unable to even will his lungs to expand. 

He hadn’t heard that voice in over two years now. He’d missed it - its lilt, its versatility, its warmth, its _comfort_. All gone because he’d been an ass, too angry at everything, didn’t want to admit his own faults that had caused him so much shit. So he’d snarled venom at one of the few people in the world who’d never seen him as a monster, the one who managed to almost entirely clear his name despite Blaviken haunting him, who was loyal no matter the circumstances.

He felt like he’d drown in his emotions if they continued on intensifying in this startling tempo. 

Geralt slipped his swords on his back, pulled his cloak on with jerky movements and followed Jaskier. 

Jaskier hadn’t managed to get even halfway up the stairs before he’d fallen to his knees, his breathing abnormally shallow and fast. Geralt had thought of this moment, if they crossed paths again. He’d stayed awake countless nights, staring at the myriad of stars above him, thinking of something that would show Jaskier he was sorry of what he’d done, of how much of a royal prick he’d been. 

Now, he just resigned himself to not being able to articulate it because he’d never been able to find anything suitable enough. Nothing was enough.

Geralt slowly pulled him up, an action that immediately bit him in the ass when a broken whimper escaped the bard. He saw his gray face, eyebrows pulled tight together, his lower chin trembling and his eyes overflowing with tears.

Geralt’s hand came off his side wet with too much blood.

“ _Fuck._ Hold on to me.” 

Jaskier was barely conscious, his head lolled to one side as his eyes rolled into his skull.

“Shit.”

Geralt wasted no time to get the key that had fallen from Jaskier’s lax fingers, quickly saw the number embedded in the metal and brought one arm under the bard’s shoulders, the other he hooked under his knees. A small blessing was how close the room was to the stairs.

He placed him on the bed, pulled his cloak away, then his dark blouse, only to be greeted with bandages soaked through with blood. They’d become soggy near his left side. When Geralt nudged them away he came face to face with poorly stitched wounds that went almost vertically, a slash of three claws. Rwo of the werewolf’s claws had dug deep, the third one had just grazed the skin. Not only that, some of the stitches had either snapped or come loose.

Geralt dug out the xenovox from his bag with his free hand to contact Yennefer. The wounds were too deep for only ointments and alcohol. The blood loss too severe, there was most definitely an infection set already, with how incoherent Jaskier was and how dark the broken tissue had turned. The sloppy stitching meant Jaskier had tried to do it himself and considering how low of a pain tolerance he possessed, Garelt’s stomach turned like a wheel of a wagon at the pain Jaskier had fallen victim to.

He must have called Yennefer because a portal appeared in the middle of the room. She was in a dark red dress and thick furs, looked tired as her heels clicked on the wooden floor. It took her a moment to assimilate the scene. The irritation slipped as a somber expression emerged.

“What happened?”

Geralt shifted his attention to Jaskier, didn’t even acknowledge her until after a minute. “From what I can guess, he was attacked by the six bandatis murdered in the forest. One of which was a werewolf.”

“A were-- fuck.” just as she was about to crouch she pulled Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt.” 

Geralt snapped his head with a retort on his tongue until he caught what she was pointing at.

Two pendants peeked out of Jaskier’s dark blouse. One was with a stone but the second one, in the form of a silver fox, was emitting an orange light, at first soft, then it amplified to the point where it hurt Geralt’s eyes to look at. 

Jaskier muttered something, he barely caught it., “Wy… mar…” 

A spell? Did he have magic?

He turned to Yennefer. She shook her head as she reached for the wounds.

Geralt kept pressure on the wound, placed the back of his hand over the bard’s forehead. Fever.

Then, the slow, rough voice of a man, “Step away from the boy.”

Yennefer jumped, immediately took out a pair of daggers out of each sleeve while Geralt snapped his head in the direction of the intruder who had materialized out of nowhere in the room. Stoic face, long hair that reached his middle, streaks of white and black in it, and a heavy-looking glinting sword in his right hand.

“ _Fuck off._ ”

In a millisecond, the old man was in front of him, the tip of his sword pressed in the hollow between Geralt’s clavicles as his free hand was poised in Yennefer’s direction, a crackle of fire beginning to lick his fingers before the flames took up his entire hand.

“I’d be very careful of my next words if I were you.” he didn’t raise his tone, yet the pure hostility filled Geralt’s senses until he almost choked. On his chest sat the same fox pendant that Jaskier had, emitted an identical orange glow. 

Jaskier chose that moment to repeat whatever he’d said, “Wymar…”

The man’s eyes softened a fraction at the sight of Jaskier. “I’m here, son.” he pressed the tip into Geralt’s throat, dragged it sideways but not to rip the skin - to make Geralt move away.

Geralt snarled, kept his place in front of Jaskier. That was, until Jaskier reached for the stranger. “You came,” he coughed out.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“What is your business with the bard?” Yennefer took a step towards him.

The intruder tilted his head back, chin high, a brief flash of gold in his eyes. Yennefer flinched back, scratched at her neck as if she couldn’t get enough air in. She inhaled sharply a moment later, the spell apparently one to keep her at bay had let her go once she’d backed up. 

“Be careful who you ire, girl. If I find out either of you is responsible for that,” he flicked his wrist in direction of Jaskier. “I’ll cut off both your heads.”

Jaskier’s arm flopped down, his fingers hit the floor with a thud, and indeed his eyes were closed again. 

Geralt did the stupidest thing in his profession and almost entirely gave his back to the man. “Jaskier?” he leaned, lifted his blood-soaked hand. “ _Fuck_. Yen, he’s--”

“Step aside.” 

Geralt snatched the hand that came in too close proximity of Jaskier. “Don’t touch him.”

But in a flash both him and Yennefer were at the other end of the room and the man who was apparently a sodding mage went to take Jaskier to the small, filled bath. He caught him the same way Geralt had at the stairs. It irked him to no end, made his blood boil further. However, as much as Geralt tried to run towards them, he couldn’t move apart from twitches here and there.

“Jaskier, I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

Geralt almost had a grip on the knife at his thigh. “You can’t fucking wet wounds, he’ll die, you--”

“Mind your tongue, boy, or you won’t be having one soon.” that fucker didn’t even look his direction as he magicked Jaskier’s blouse away.

“Got ambushed.” Jaskier rasped out, thus halting any further confrontation. Yet again, his head lolled back and he lost consciousness. 

Yennefer spoke, “One of the bandits was a werewolf.”

“Yennefer!” Geralt hissed at her, managed to twist his head due to the rage that was threatening to spill over. 

“Calm down. He’s not hurting him.” Yennefer muttered, having suddenly acquired a pensive face.

Wymar’s eyebrows pulled together while he rinsed the grime off Jaskier with gentle care. Then, out of the blue, he met Geralt’s eyes. He felt him try to probe his mind, too powerful for Geralt to do anything in his defence, even if he knew all the tricks in the book.

It was over in an instant. Whatever Wymar had searched for, he must have found it. The pressure of the spell lessened, however Geralt landed on his ass from a sudden wave of dizziness, Yennefer not faring better.

“He has power over water, to a large extent.” Wymar said, wiped dirt from Jaskier’s forehead and cheeks. Even after all the shit he’d removed, the water in the bath was clean. A spell. “It’s the only thing that can help him heal fast. Your way would have gotten him killed.”

Geralt fought to keep his calm and kick out every emotion out of his head. “My way?”

“The girl’s.”

Yennefer didn’t seem offended in the slightest. That in itself was mildly put a questionable reaction in a situation such as this. She made a brief grimace before asking, “Do you happen to be over five hundred years old?”

Out of nowhere, a rumble sounded. No, the wizard had laughed. The edges of his eyes creased. “So he did tell you about me. The little rascal.” he shook his head before he wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders to lift him up, until the wound was visible.

Jaskier’s head fell on the wizard’s breast bone, his chin tucked in.

Holy fuck. 

The bleeding had almost stopped.

“Why wouldn’t have my spell worked?”

Wymar took his time answering. “He’s lost too much blood. The spell is time esque. He’d have bled out in another ten to fifteen minutes, much less survive an hour. At least the witcher applied enough pressure to slow the process.”

A bout of silence filled the room, the only exception being the splatter of the water in the tub. 

“He’s lucky he lifted the spell or you wouldn’t have found him.”

“What spell?” Geralt and Yennefer asked simultaneously. 

The wizard shot them a wry smile. “Did you find the rock hidden in the tiny tear of your saddle?”

Yennefer whacked Geralt’s shoulder. “I fucking told you there was something off with that thing.”

The wizard kept cupping water to pour over the claw marks and slowly but surely the bleeding completely stopped. 

“I gave them to him years ago. They can keep people away from you, never let them find you, no matter if you’re in the same room.”

Geralt recalled the wrongness of the fact that he’d skipped over Jaskier entering the inn, then had a rapid clarity, as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes.

The fucking dream.

_“I think I wouldn’t mind seeing you again. One last time.”_

The sudden yank towards this village, to this inn, to the spot he’d sat in. It was all because the Jaskier had lifted the spell in that dream. While he’d probably been unconscious after the attack, certain that he was going to die. Then had second thoughts because his scent had vanished into thin air, only to reappear when he was probably too out of his mind to think straight.

“Not quite.” that bloody meddling wizard. “It’s not my place to share any further of his background seeing as I crossed the line already, but know something I keep forgetting in the heat of emotion - he can’t die so easily.”

He left it at that, answered no more questions but also made no new spell to keep them down. 

##  **⋆**

Jaskier regained awareness so slowly he was almost certain he was dead. Only he couldn’t die, so it was a ridiculous notion.

His side hurt. His head pounded. Even with his eyes firmly shut he was dizzy, with a horrid tremor in all his limbs.

He was in water, the only reassuring thing that kept him from screaming. 

He let his eyes open slowly and--

Pitch black.

His already accelerated heart began to drum at a monstrous pace.

“Calm down, son. You’re safe now.”

A heavy stone lifted off his chest. “ _Wymar._ ”

Wymar being Wymar didn't beat around the bush, despite the situation at hand. “If you don’t mind me asking, why _the fuck_ did you not call for me while you were still in that wretched forest, instead of doing sloppy stitches, then trotting down to the village with your blood still seeping out of your wounds? Or did I miss an act in the middle of this?”

A wave of shame poured over Jaskier. He hadn’t wanted to involve him. Given the fact that he was unable to die the upcoming twenty decades he’d presumed he’d manage on his own.

“Oh, really, now? And how are you certain that curse won’t lift at the very worst moment just so that witch could fuck with you?”

He’d had this precise argument with Wymar a few dozen times now, with both of them fuming at the end of it. There was no way they could be sure it wasn’t just a spell that only prolonged his life, without the bonus of granting him actual immunity to death, that it wouldn’t activate solely when Jaskier tried to take his own life.

Because that’s why the witch had cursed him in the first place, to get at him from ruining her spell in the way it would hurt him the most--

“Jaskier.”

He heard someone else approach from the other side of the tub. 

_That voice._

That voice was, “Geralt?”

Jaskier reached towards him on pure instinct, or to where he presumed he was. His palm touched a broad arm, calloused fingers brushed the inner side of his own forearm, slid over his skin as if afraid to apply pressure.

Jaskier brought his hand further, up a clothed shoulder. Hair slipped between his fingers briefly before he landed his fingertips on a creased forehead. And there, the scars Geralt had on the right side of his face - one over his brow, the other under his eye, just a smidge over his cheekbone.

He couldn’t stop going over them and finally Geralt’s palm clasped over his flesh, a reassuring squeeze.

“I heard you wouldn’t mind seeing me one last time.”

The dream, he’d fallen unconscious after he’d thrust a dagger into the werewolf’s head, through his chin, until the tip had showed itself at the top of his head. Of course he’d forgotten he was most likely temporarily immortal in those vulnerable moments of panic and lifted the spell. 

Because he’d wanted to spend one last moment with Geralt, despite thinking it was impossible with how Geralt had wanted nothing to do with him.

A bleak snort escaped him, but it might have sounded like a cough. 

His sight had started returning to him; for now he could only tell that the room was bathed in the golden hues of multiple candles strewn about.

Wymar sighted, Jaskier just knew he was pinching the bridge of his nose with his mouth pursed. “Miss Yennefer, I’ll need your assistance with a few potions for this lovely idiot.”

Even _Yennefer_ was here?

“Must I?”

“Yen.” Geralt grit out. Still, his grip on Jaskier didn’t tighten despite the edge in his intonation.

What? 

Oh, wait, wait, wait, no, no, no, no, no, they weren’t going to leave him with Gerald all alone, were they? That was not an option as of right now, he wasn’t ready for such a conversation yet, he was too unsure of his own emotions to--

Despite his incoherency due to the blood loss he reacted immediately. “Wait just a second now.”

“Witcher, need I remind you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got the memo the first time.”

The click of heels as Yennefer walked away, followed by Wymar’s heavy steps and the whoosh of a portal opening and closing sounded.

“Why did Yennefer willingly go somewhere with a stranger, who I am entirely certain threatened to kill both of you in one way or another? Or maybe tried to curse you?” Geralt said nothing. “Ah, so he did manage to curse you. How many times?”

“We talked it out.” Geralt bit out, blatantly passing the questions.

“Uh-huh. How’s that ship going, by the way, with Yennefer?”

Geralt hissed out a fast exhale. “Jaskier.”

Well, it was worth the try. Don’t get him wrong, he was in no forgiving mood currently, but acting as if nothing was amiss was ten times easier than admitting they weren’t friends anymore.

Oh, wait, they were never ones to begin with, right?

The fingers around his forearm tightened before loosening their grip once more. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For being an ass, for taking out my own fucks ups on you.” 

Jaskier’s eyes had finally regained their function. Geralt was staring at their point of contact. His brows were as furrowed as when he’d yelled at Jaskier the last time. 

Then he shook his head, lowered it further. A stricken expression etched itself into his sharp features, “I’ve thought of this a lot of times, but, I never managed to think of something that would mean anything.” he let out a barely audible snort, lips pulled into a bitter smile. “There are no words for this. I fucked up and reaped the consqeunces.” 

_“There are no words for this, Jaskier. I fucked up. Royally.”_

“Now--”

“I’m gone.”

Geralt’s head shot up, jaw ticking as he locked eyes with Jaskier. “It wasn’t just a dream.”

“No. I don’t know why it happened, though. Must have been the weather.” Jaskier lowered himself further into the bathtub, pressed his right hand to the wounds. They’d closed up at least, but the water wasn’t going to help further than that.

“What was that curse that the mage mentioned?”

“I’m not talking about that, Geralt.”

“The fuck you’re not.”

“Oh yeah? How about you talk a little concerning Kaer Morhen, huh? You don’t want to, right? And did I ever push you to talk? No. So yes, I am not talking about that.”

Geralt recoiled, his hand spasmped so that he let go of him. Jaskier brought his freed arm into the water. But Geralt’s hand chose to not back down and clasped his bare shoulder. 

“Alright.” he said. “And what of the mage? Is he your… father?”

“No.”

“He’s not holding you against his will, right?”

Jaskier made a face, finally turned to him with a spiteful curse when he saw the tiny smile gracing Geralt’s lips. It was the first time he’d witnessed this particular emotion on him. Not that he could identify it, the only thing he could grasp of it was how soft and unguarded it was, how trusting.

It morphed into something more somber and, “I truly am sorry about what I said to you that day, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s tired heart and mind buzzed with life while managing to make him feel like a fuzzy blanket, with his vision starting to smudge again. He didn’t want to forget it - the pain Geralt caused him. Yet he also wanted to put that shit behind him and learn how to breathe properly again.

“Okay.” Jaskier whispered and Geralt’s smile grew wider, if only a fraction. His eyes became molten gold as his rough thumb brushed over his clavicle once, twice. 

And for a tiny moment, Jaskier's mind was a calm sea that reflected the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I would very much appreciate your opinion!


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